A Forgotten Memory
by MissCharlieWeasley
Summary: Tom Riddle has little to live for - apart from life. However, when he returns after his fifth year at Hogwarts, he finds an addition to the orphanage might just change his perspective. Can she change his perspective on life - and death? "HELP HER YOU OLD FOOL!" Tom half cried and half screamed.


**A/N: This is my first Tom fic so I wasn't quite sure how he would be... as I wrote this, he seemed to develop himself.**

**As you all know, there can't be a happy ending for Tom but that doesn't mean that there can't be any bright spots along the way.**

**This fic also got further and further ahead of me as I wrote, it and ended up being nearly twice as long as I had intended.**

**Disclaimer: As ever, all characters - apart from Annie - are creations of the wonderful JK Rowling, as are the places - apart from St Bart's Hospital.**

A Forgotten Memory

Harry Potter stared down into the pensive, it was on the desk once more, however, this time there was no Dumbledore. Harry wondered absent mindedly why Dumbledore wasn't there. He had received the familiar roll of parchment with his name on the front of it, detailing that he was to go to Dumbledore's office at 8 o' clock the next day. There Harry was, but there was no sign of Dumbledore. Fawkes wasn't even there to keep him company.

The pensive had always had a certain allure for Harry; today was no exception. Looking over the silvery-white mist which lay in the shallow bowl, Harry noticed that there were no small phials of the silvery liquid. This struck Harry as strange, the pensive being out surely meant that - within their lesson - Dumbledore and Harry would be journeying into the past to find out some fact or another about the escapades of Lord Voldemort as a child and throughout his years at Hogwarts.

Harry strode over to the cabinet – where Dumbledore kept the phials of memory – and began to look through them. He identified a few that he had seen and marvelled at how many more there were, surely Dumbledore couldn't be wanting to show all of these to Harry. A small, plain glass phial sat long forgotten at the back of the top shelf. It looked as though it had never been opened, there was something about it which made Harry pick it up and carry it back over to the pensive. He had some difficulty getting the memory out of the phial – maybe his thought about memories going off had something to it after all – but eventually it slipped out of the glass bottle and into the swirling contents of the pensive. An image rose to the surface of the liquid in the pensive, it was Tom Riddle, there was no doubt about that, but he had a strange expression on his face. An expression Harry had never expected to see on a face like that. He looked happy, not happy as Harry had seen him before, but truly and remarkably happy. It lit up his features and made them much more human and warm. His high cheekbones looked less domineering and his eyes benefited greatly for having an extra sparkle in them. His smile was as handsome as he rest of his face, effortlessly stretching across his jaw and showing perfectly straight white teeth between his lips. It made Harry wonder if the smiles he had given in the other memories were even his own. It also made Harry wonder what could make him so happy. Harry was sure that if Tom Riddle was smiling, nothing good was going to happen.

Harry could not take his eyes away from the image conjured before him and his mind was too busy - trying to figure out what could make Voldemort so happy that he looked like that – to listen to the tiny Hermione-ish voice telling him it was a bad idea to go diving into one of Lord Voldemort's memories. He took one last look around and pushed his face into the surface of the memory, ready to see whatever this most peculiar memory had to show him.

Tom Riddle sat on his bed with a novel in his hand. He had been sat like that for little under an hour. He had been reading the same two pages for the majority of that hour, a fact that Tom despised, he was tired of reading the same lines over and over but no matter what he did, he could not take in what the words meant. This frustrated Tom because he had been rather enjoying the book and this would most definitely spoil it for him. He knew exactly why he couldn't concentrate, it was because of that blasted music, wafting down from the next floor up. Tom sighed and laid down the book, stretching an standing up. He was determined to do something about the noise – before it drove him mad. There was something seriously wrong when he couldn't read a good book in his own bedroom. Mind you, nothing surprised Tom any more – well, nothing about the orphanage surprised him - he knew all too well the kind of children who got left in the dump and how they turned out. He considered himself a perfect example of this. They looked nice and polite on the outside with impeccable manners and an air of hope about them but they also had enough 'issues' to scare off a thunder of angry dragons. It changed people – being raised with no family – who were they supposed to learn from? He knew that he had a terrible temper and that if he was in a bad mood anything could set him off. As a child this often led to uncontrolled bouts of magic which had scared the other children out of their minds. Even now, the ones who were old enough to remember were wary of him and avoided him as much as possible. This did not concern Tom very much as he had always preferred to be on his own and spent most of the year away at school.

Tom had arrived back at the orphanage two days ago after the school year had officially ended and he had been forced to make his way 'home' with all of the other Hogwarts students. Hogwarts was not an ordinary school, nor was it a school for the gifted, or the challenged, or the mad. No, Hogwarts was a school of magic. Something Tom had been delighted about when he had first been invited to attend, he loved to be different, it gave him a purpose and made his life more bearable to know that there was always Hogwarts to go back to in a few short weeks. Surely he could survive with the promise of Hogwarts at the end of the summer. In a few weeks time Tom would be going back to Hogwarts for his sixth year – and starting his N.E. – a thought which made him sad for he would soon be finishing his time at Hogwarts and would be forced to make his own way in the wizarding world. He did hope , however, that he would return to Hogwarts one day, maybe to teach.

Tom had reached the top of the stairs by the time he had finished contemplating all of this, he stood at the top of the landing and looked around, identifying which room the noise was coming from. He found the room almost immediately, it was a room which had stood empty for some time but now the light was on and the door was ajar slightly. Yes, here was where the music was coming from. There was a note of familiarity about the music and yet he could not place it, sure he would find another sad teenager lying on the small bed listening to the music, Tom pushed the door open and stepped inside. Tom Riddle froze. For the first time in his life, he was struck dumb by the scene before him. There was no radio, no music player, just a girl – perhaps a year younger than him – stood in the middle of the room with a violin in one hand and a bow in the other. The music had not stopped when he entered the room and so Tom presumed that she had not heard the door open, with a sudden thought, he recognised the music.

"Allemanda" he said, at this the girl stopped and turned, shocked, perhaps at the sudden appearance of a complete stranger in her room.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking startled.

"The piece, Allemanda by Bach," he paused for a moment, simply looking at her, "beautiful."

The blush crept up her cheeks and she looked towards the floor before meeting his gaze.

"Thank you," she said, "did I disturb you?"

"Not at all," he lied, "I simply wondered where the music was coming from."

"Oh, well, that was me."

"Yes, I gathered as much," he replied, a slight smile touching his lips, "beautiful." He said again and then walked out of the room without another word. It was a few days before he spoke to her again, he made sure to wait until she was playing again before venturing up a floor and knocking quietly on her door. It was a different piece of music this time, unfamiliar but just as perfect, sad in a way that made him think of growing up in the orphanage, unwelcome images of his childhood crept into his mind and by the time she finished playing and opened the door, he was not quite sure what to say to her. For a moment or two he just looked at her and – once again – the blush crept up her cheeks and settled there.

"I never asked your name," he said, matter-of-factly.

"You still haven't," she replied and he smiled, that same smile that Harry had seen on the surface of the memory in the pensive.

"No, I have not. Might I enquire as to what your name is?" He asked very politely and this time it was her turn to smile.

"You might," she replied, "my name is Anne-Marie, and yours?"

"Annie," he murmured, wondering, "my name is Tom."

They looked at each other for another moment before Tom spoke again; she did not correct him on the use of her name.

"I have noticed that, since my return, you have not left this dismal house and I was wondering if you might like to go for a walk with me this afternoon, not that I meant to interrupt your rehearsal," he bowed his head slightly as he spoke, she was perhaps a head and shoulders smaller than him and he found himself looking into her eyes from an angle above her. Fearing that she would deny him, he looked away and took in the room around him, noticing for the first time that there was no music stand and no music in front of her. She played from memory, this fact intrigued him, to be that devoted to one thing had been something that he struggled with in the past.

"I would love to, thank you." She said it in a small voice but it was sincere and Tom found himself thinking that he might just have a reason to enjoy this summer after all.

Tom had been right about his summer, it was the best that he had had, it seemed to stretch out in front of him and yet the next minute he was in Diagon Alley purchasing his school equipment and readying himself for another year at Hogwarts. For the first time in his life, Tom was not overly pleased about going back to Hogwarts, going back would mean leaving Annie and leaving Annie was not something that Tom wanted to do. His summer had been blissful, Annie and he had gone for a walk every afternoon, he and Annie had played a game of chess and every evening Annie and he had sat on the landing in the orphanage and talked about their lives, about their childhoods and – for Tom – about Hogwarts. Tom had never spoken of his school before and no had ever asked him; if anyone at the orphanage was bothered about where Tom Riddle went for the majority of the year, they did not show it. Nevertheless, he departed once again for the train that would take him back to school. Tom had done much over the summer; most of which he was proud of, parts of which he was not. Gently, he brushed the surface of the black stoned ring on his right hand, his grandfather's ring – perhaps the only family member that he could be proud of, yet, how could he be angry at his mother now when her act had been – ultimately – what lead him to meet Annie?

The fact that his thoughts concerned only Annie had made him nervous at first but over the summer he had come to accept them and allow his feelings to grow. It was safe to say that – for the first time – Tom would not be putting his name down to stay at Hogwarts through the Christmas period.

However, when Tom returned to the orphanage for Christmas, things were not as he had expected them, he might have imagined a cheerful Christmas dinner with Annie followed by a long walk in the park but that was not what he got. When he opened the door to the orphanage and called through to Mrs Cole there was no reply; he heaved his trunk over the thresh hold and stopped. There was something very different about the orphanage; being one of its older inhabitants, Tom had prided himself on knowing everything about the orphanage, however, his first few steps back through the door in the cold winter air were all he needed to tell him that he had been wrong. Wrong about everything. There was something that he didn't know about the orphanage and he might never have found out about it if he hadn't ventured back for Christmas.

The staff of Wool Orphanage were all on the third floor, overseeing the deconstruction of a piece of heavy-looking medical equipment – not something you would expect to find in a home for abandoned children – and Tom could only assume that one of the weaker children had lapsed in the cold air and lack of daylight, these were things that Tom knew could greatly weaken an already ill child. This was what he believed until he reached his own bedroom and deposited his trunk. Only then did the thought occur to him that there were none of the young children – or the ill children – on the third floor; Mrs Cole liked to keep them closer to her own quarters on the first floor – where she could look after them through the night. No, Tom was almost certain that the only three residents on the third floor: 12 year old twins Jack and Karen and Annie.

Tom's heart stopped and he dropped his school bag, turning and shooting out of his bedroom; up the stairs to the next floor. His heart already told him what his brain refused to believe: that she wasn't there, that they had taken her away from him and that she might never be coming back to him. He stopped in the doorway of her room and Mrs Cole looked at him from within.

"She's not here Tom." It was all the old matron said but it was enough, he tone of voice had been soft; softer than any tone he had heard her use before – people were not generally soft when it came to that Riddle boy – and frighteningly so. He voice told him all that he needed to know.

"Where?" He whispered, pulling his hands through his hair and raising tormented eyes to look directly at her.

"St Bartholomew's" she whispered in reply, not meeting his gaze. Tome ran out of the room and was halfway down the stairs when she called after him,

"But Tom," she took a breath, "don't be shocked – when you see her – it'll only upset her." Tom nodded, a barely discernible movement - one fraction down and then back up – before he was running again.

St. Bartholomew's hospital was not very far from the orphanage, he and Annie had walked past it every day in the summer and had never once paid it a second glance, but now Tom strode through the door and ignored the cheerful nurses and patient doctors trying to get his attention and find out where he was going – it was none of their business. He asked a receptionist as soon as the huddle of medical professionals left the reception area.

"Excuse me," Tom began in his politest voice; the receptionist looked up, her eyes widening as she took in Tom.

"Yes, my dear, how may I help you?" She said, still looking a little bit flustered as she stared at Tom.

"I'm looking for someone who has been recently admitted: Anne-Marie.." His voice trailed off, he did not know Annie's last name.

"Yes dear," the receptionist prompted, smiling widely at Tom; this gave Tom an idea.

"I'm sorry, I don't know her last name." Tom made sure to sound thoroughly disappointed with himself before continuing.

"Is there any way that you could find her without it?" Tom asked.

"No, I'm afraid not my dear, we have over two thousand patients here and finding just one based on a first name is not going to be easy."

"Oh," Tom said looking disappointed, "I was so sure that a woman as clever and as lovely as you could help me, but if you can't..." he let his voice trail away again, looking up at the receptionist from under his dark eyelashes. Her face was flushed but she seemed pleased with herself and she began take files out of the cabinet behind her.

"Now you wait just a minute, I'm sure we can find something for you. Can you tell me anything else about her?"

Tom quickly obliged, "she's sixteen years old and was admitted within the last week – I think – I don't know why she's here but it must be bad. She has auburn curls and bright green eyes; very pale skin and she's small in stature."

"Woah, don't get carried away, I can't identify her on her appearance from these," she gestured to the files, "but I can narrow it down based on what you've told me. From what you've said she'll be on the long stay ward with a week under her belt already – you say you don't know why she's here?" Tom shook his head as she began to pull out files.

Ten minutes later she had two files in front of her, "well, there are two Anne-Maries in the hospital at the moment and since yours isn't a fifty-five year old woman with kidney failure, I'm guessing that this" she held up the second file "is your girl."

She opened the file and nodded upon seeing the photograph, "and she's in, oh." She looked up at Tom with pity in her eyes.

"What?" Tom demanded.

"She's in the Poole ward."

"What does that mean?!" He demanded again.

"It's the cancer ward."

Tom's world crashed, stopped, ended and ceased to function – much in a similar way to his heart – but, unlike his heart, it did not start back up again as he began to run up the stairs to the fifth floor of the hospital and the Poole Ward. He could see her from the door of the ward, swathed in white sheets, her head resting on a white pillow and her hair spilling out around her head; tubes sticking into her arms and a monitor connected to her chest. Ill. She was ill. She had cancer. Tom could not believe what was in front of him – Annie could not have cancer, could not be ill... could not die. She was strong and only the weak got cancer. She was young and only the old die. She was his and he had never had anything as good in his life. He ghosted his was down the ward and stopped next to her bed, she had not heard him approach; on closer inspection he found out that she was sleeping, her chest rising and falling with peaceful, even breaths. He sat in the chair next to her bed and prepared himself to wait for her to wake. It was over an hour before she did so and Tom had nearly fallen asleep himself but had forced his eyes open, determined to be there should she wake up. Twice a nurse came past and offered him a glass of water, twice he refused her and the third time, she did not bother. Annie stretched and turned over – on to the side where she would face him.

"Oh." She said, looking him directly in the face, "Tom" she whispered. He could see the web of veins under her nearly transparent skin and remembered what Mrs Cole had said.

Anger boiled beneath his skin, surprising him – he had not felt anger like this since he murdered his father at the very beginning of the summer holidays – but welcome. Anger he had felt before, he expected and he knew how to deal with. He was angry at the world for taking away the good points in his life, he was angry at himself for letting her invade his life – and for liking it – and most of all, he was angry at her for forcing her way into his life – into his heart – and then flouncing out of it again. No. He could not blame her – that would be inhumane – but then he was Tom Riddle, no family, no friends and no love. It had been one of the things he had prided himself on for many years.

"Hello." He said, as softly as he could manage but there was still a hard and bitter edge to his voice; she smiled – the ghost of the smile that he had lured out of her almost every day through the summer – and gasped slightly. Tom jolted forwards in his seat, ready to steady her should she need it.

"You're angry." She said, looking back at him but not letting him speak before continuing, "Definitely at the world... possibly at me. I don't blame you Tom, I'm angry too, I just can't do anything about it." She looked directly into his eyes and they showed sympathy, towards him? Tom couldn't tell.

"Not at you," he whispered, "Never at you. We'll fix it, fix you. If you think that I'm going to let you go!" His voice had risen to almost a shout and some of the medical staff were giving him funny looks. To be completely fair to her, Annie had not even blinked, she was not so much used to the bouts of shouting as partial to them herself, one of the things that had drawn them together – and something that Tom put down to the counterproductive process of being brought up in an orphanage.

"You don't have a choice Tom, you know why they've moved me here, don't you?" She asked calmly.

"You. Are. Not. Going. To. Die!" Tom said, a furious whisper as he leant over her bed.

"Tom," She said placating "they wouldn't have moved me here if they thought it was going to go away, I've been getting worse." Tom refused to look at her, staring at the floor, nostrils flaring.

"It wont be long now Tom," she whispered and he looked up at her.

"How can you say that?!" He hissed.

"I've known for years Tom, I knew it would happen at some point, I just didn't know when; I made my peace with the world... but Tom, I need you to make yours because I'm going to need you more and more as this gets worse." She shot him an almost rueful smile.

"And you didn't think to tell me?!" He shot back at her before looking away again, he was finding this very difficult and was not used to it.

"No." She said softly, "I didn't want to ruin it."

"Ruin what?! Because no matter what you told me, you were going to have to ruin it at some point!"

"I know Tom, I know." She said in the same soft voice, he looked up at her and saw that she was looking at the sheets over her lap, tears dripping onto them in a low and mournful rhythm, know he was angry at himself for getting angry at her, and he was angry at her for not telling him. He couldn't sit there any longer, he got up out of the chair and stalked down the ward without looking back.

Tom did not return to the hospital the next day, or the day after than and Annie got steadily worse, crying a lot and in almost constant pain. Every day that he did not turn up, she asked the nurse if he'd been whilst she slept. Every day the nurse said 'of course dear' and every day, she lied. It took Tom a week to remember why he'd come home for Christmas and to dredge up the guts to go and see her; when he did, he was shocked at how much she had deteriorated.

On Christmas eve, he was sat in the chair next to her bed when she woke up, at first she thought she was imagining him because his head was down and she could not see his face – this would not be the first time that she had wished for him so hard that she'd seen him.

"Tom," she whispered and his head snapped up, it pained her to see tears running down his face.

"Yes" he whispered back.

"Don't cry," she smiled weakly.

"I'll try," he said smiling back at her.

They did not speak of their argument before but focussed on the future – however long it might be – talking quietly of what they wanted to do with it, though both of them knew that she was not going to be there long.

Tom had dozed off in his chair when it happened, she was watching him sleep when she felt the familiar pains through her body, stronger than ever. Her eyes went black and she cried out weakly, desperate for someone – for Tom – to help her. He bolted upright, looking around for a nurse but the nearest one was in the office and he did not want to leave her.

"Shhhhhh" he said, he was alarmed to hear how distraught his voice sounded "I'll stop it! I'll make it go away!"

"We've talked about this Tom," she groaned, closing her eyes.

"NO!" He shouted, standing and shaking her, "Open your eyes! Annie, you can't close your eyes!"

"But I'm so tired Tom," she mumbled, forcing them open slightly.

"I know." He said, they were attracting the attention of the – previously sleeping – other inhabitants of the ward.

Annie was right, they had talked about this, they had talked about what they would do when she began to fail. Tom began to unplug the various wires and tubes, pulling them out of Annie at one end or out of the machine at the other, Tom could not tell which because of the stupid tear running down his face! Tears! Of all things he could be doing, he was crying! Annie had closed her eyes again but her chest was still moving up and down ever so slightly. A nurse was shouting and moving up the ward towards them now, seeing Tom taking Annie in his arms, the nurse began to run, shouting for help behind her. Tom did not have time for this, to play games with the muggle medical staff. He spun on the spot and disapparated, intending to go to the park they had frequented on their walks, he was shocked – therefore – to find himself outside the headmaster's office at Hogwarts. He looked down at Annie in his arms – so small and feeble and dying. It it him then, she was dying. She was just laid there – in his arms – dying.

Tom burst through the doors of Professor Dippet's office and collapsed onto the carpet in the middle of the circular room. Professor Dippet ran to Tom in the middle of the room, gasping in horror at what he saw but Professor Dumbledore pushed him out of the way and touched Tom's shoulder, in an almost comforting way. Tom recoiled, sick of the way that Dumbledore treated him, with that fatherly affection but also with sternness, mocking him in every step. Why, at this terrible moment, would Dumbledore choose to comfort him?! He pushed his arms forwards, alarmed at how little Annie was moving.

"HELP HER!" He screamed at Dumbledore, silently begging for forgiveness, for Dumbledore's ever present trust in humanity to win out and for him to perform the miracles that would save her, save his Annie from the doorstep of death.

"Tom..." Dumbledore began, softly, his eyes shining with sorrow.

"SHUT UP AND HELP HER!" Tom screamed again, waking the portraits on the walls – who could not have pretended to sleep if they wanted to.

"I don't..." Dumbledore began again, reaching out to comfort Tom.

"HELP HER YOU OLD FOOL!" Tom half cried and half screamed.

"TOM!" Dumbledore replied, stern this time, and Tom Riddle did not speak. "It's too late," Dumbledore finished quietly, his anger turning to grief in a way that Tom Riddle's anger ever could. Tom looked blankly at Dumbledore, not realising what he had said, he knew that there must be a reason why Dumbledore – the great muggle-lover that he was – was not helping her.

"What?" Tom whispered, his voice higher and colder than before.

"I am sorry Tom, she has gone." The words crashed around in Tom Riddle's head for a minute, Dumbledore let him realise his loss before stretching out a hand to comfort Tom once more. Tom snarled as Dumbledore's hand made contact with his arm and – before Dumbledore could do anything, he pulled her body tight to his chest and vanished from the office with a scream of pure anguish.

Tom appeared somewhere he had only been once before, the graveyard adjoined to the big house that had once belonged to his good-for-nothing muggle father. Yes, his father had been a muggle, worthless, weak and rotting in the ground. Just like Ann – he stopped himself, she was just another worthless muggle after all. Just like HER!

Tom threw her away from his body and his eyes flashed red with rage as he stood, watching as her limp body hit the solid ground with a thump.

His mother.

His father.

HER!

He would never succumb to such weakness, he would NEVER die!

**A/N: Thank you lovely readers... I am well aware that I am a horrible person but feel free to tell me in a review ;)**

**... And now it's spell checked too!**

**UPDATE! 9/8/14: Hi my lovelies, I just wanted to tell you that - after receiving reviews demanding knowledge about Harry's reaction - I have added a new fanfiction to the site which follows on from this; there is a full explanation within it as to why I have added it separately etc.**

** s/10605421/1/Remembering-a-sequel-to-A-Forgotten-Memory**

**YOU DO NOT HAVE TO READ IT! IT'S OPTIONAL FOR A REASON ;)**

**Thank You!**

**P.S. REVIEW - especially you Cait!**


End file.
